


Marked: Part II ("Complications")

by goodgirlwhoshopeful



Series: Marked [2]
Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), CHRISTIE Agatha - Works
Genre: 1930s, ATTWN, AU, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Angst, BBC, Christie - Freeform, Drama, F/M, Period-Typical Racism, Racist Language, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, World War II, alternative universe, soul mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 12:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6374575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlwhoshopeful/pseuds/goodgirlwhoshopeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Find PART I on my profile!)</p><p> </p><p>“I know what I am.” His tone had turned deep with an edge she did not like. “I always knew it would catch up with me.” She swallowed, once again envious of his ability to accept the hand of God without repentance and without fear. Almost wistfully, his gaze left her as he turned on his heel, his voice becoming soft, as though reaching a spiritual realisation as he took a long pull of smoke into his lungs. “And here it is…”</p><p> </p><p>Soulmate-Identifying Marks AU in canon with the BBC's 2015 adaptation.<br/>(Split into parts for easy reading / to allow feedback on sections).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked: Part II ("Complications")

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again - back by popular demand (and the fact I just cannot stop writing this). 
> 
> MASSIVE thank you to my betas, @williamholdens & @evennstars - and to all those I have consulted with on the difficult nature of some elements of this chapter. T'was much appreciated!! 
> 
> And, because I feel it needs to be said forever, a big, big thank you to Aidan Turner and Maeve Dermody, for making my life so much easier with their wonderfully layered performances. 
> 
> Now for the serious, boring bit:  
> I do not own/claim to own either Christie's characters or the BBC's adaptation. This is a work inspired by the wonder of both these materials and is for non profit only. 
> 
>  
> 
> TRIGGER/LANGUAGE WARNING:  
> The N-word is used in this chapter. I considered long and hard about this and decided that historical and characteristic accuracy are very important to me, so the word has remained in this finished version. It is an awful, ugly word and therefore the use of it does NOT reflect my own views, but is to reflect the mindset of white mercenaries, like Philip, in the 1930s.  
> (Hint, be under no illusions, people. Philip Lombard is not a nice man, so I will not write him as such).

**II**

**"Complications"**

* * *

 

**_P. Lombard_**  

 

As the booming narrator had declared all of the guests' true criminalities, and most importantly, his own, Philip felt a rising frustration within him. No one knowing him to be a trained killer in this house full of potentially problematic strangers had been a considerable advantage; upper hand and all that. When the voice had said his name, he’d been exasperated, rather than irritated, by its revelation. In fact, that his name had been accompanied by none other than Miss Claythorne'sfull name left him momentarily preoccupied. Drawing the last of his cigarette into his lungs, he came to the smug realisation that his instincts, once again, were right on the money. 

He'd  _knew_  he'd seen something calculating behind her eyes.

The adrenaline from the sudden tension in the room seemed to light a fire within him, like an addict having a first hit after weeks of drought. He marched down below stairs, overtaking Rogers – who moved at an aggravatingly slow pace – as the drive to pummel whomever was divulging secrets into that microphone set him on edge with effervescent energy. (He loved that he even got to make such a show of it by kicking down the door.) 

It transpired to be a recording, of course – an amusingly cunning 'party game' to begin a weekend of chaos. Davis – or Detective Inspector Blore as it was soon revealed was his _real_ name – had been in Philip's mind as a liar from the moment he had attempted to say 'schnifter' in a supposedly upper-class English accent like Marston’s. His all too meticulous pronunciation of specific phrases, such as 'tinned goods’, had led Philip to barely bottle a snort at the dinner table. He'd managed to murmur"Davis has hidden depths," before stuffing meat into his mouth to keep from laughing when the man glared at him, bemused, from across the table. 

No one could see what he could see; that the man's accent was as phoney as a three-pound note; that his entire identity was so clearly a farce.

That's how he knew, killers or not, he would always have an advantage over them all. They all thought they were so clever, when they were so clearly absolutely blind _._  

When they’d all sat and discussed the awful, ‘repugnant’ lies disclosed by Mr. Owen on the record, Philip had barely suppressed the urge to laugh aloud. If their mystery host knew the exact number of men he had slaughtered in Africa – a secret he had assumed he would take to his grave – then, quite obviously, all he knew about his other guests must also be the truth. 

As they all gathered in the drawing room and everyone around him pretended to be outraged by the accusations, Philip found himself considering that this was the first time he heard of Miss Claythorne’s Christian name: Vera _._ How fitting _…_ It was sharp, concise, unusual, non-biblical… It suited her. 

 

Not long afterward, he heard her lie for the first time. He’d known it was a lie from the moment she had said it. To all others in the room – impetuous, foolish and gullible as they were – her wording warranted belief and outpours of sympathy. 

To Philip, however, all that could be heard in her words was rehearsal. 

“Cyril…the little boy…I…I was his governess.” The tremor and hesitation in her voice felt like a performance, timed too well with too perfect an emotional balance. Her lies seemed to stir him up, calling to the fiend within him that thrived on deceit and power exchange; with the magnetic draw of a kindred spirit. Rocking on the balls of his feet, Philip pursed his lips and had to look at the floor; he suddenly did not trust his reactions to be nonchalant while listening to her, as fabrication after fabrication slipped from her lips like silky saliva. “He wasn’t supposed to swim. He wasn’t strong.” Philip looked around him, taking in the enraptured faces of all those around him in disbelief – with the exception of Ms. Brent who simply looked as entitled as she always did. Somehow, they honestly didn’t seem to hear it. How couldn’t they hear it? Granted, she was quite possibly the most talented liar had ever come across…but no one lied perfectly. Miss Claythorne’s main fault, for example, lay in the fact that everything was simply tooprecise. “But he sneaked off…and I…I wasn't a good enough swimmer. I just wasn’t _good_ enough.”

He could picture her expression without looking at her; the shine in her wide, expressive doe eyes. Vera Claythorne clearly had the skill that not even he had mastered in his twelve years of doing what he did: she had taught herself to believe her own lies. “I really tried to save him. His poor mother was broken – she was so broken…I had to be rescued…I almost drowned…who could say something like this?” 

Air rushed in and out of his lungs as his expression remained pinched in restraint. In his periphery he could see the way Vera’s chin almost wobbled, fighting back tears and nursing a brandy. Wrong as it may be, he found he was physically excitedsomewhat by her ability to spin a tale so well; more than that, he was aroused that she had the cunning to wantto do so. Listening to her false emotion made him envisage her close to him, under him, writhing against his hold and lying in his ear. 

Lies…how interesting they made life’s events.

 

_“You lie to us!” He could remember the way the blithering nigger’s voice had wobbled, close to tears, and how it had made Philip want to laugh. He had him under his boot, pressed into the dirt sand of the Central African desert. Blood dripped from his dark, swollen face, and Philip could remember being almost fascinated by the way the crimson menace of blood was barely distinguishable against the man’s ebony skin. It almost looked like rusty liquid mud, he had thought, and yet, his own hands had been bright scarlet with that same blood. The colour had been so bright that it was almost as though the man’s life made his blood luminous on a white man’s hands. Flexing his fists, Philip had struck again and again, determined to permanently silence the tribal translator. Obviously he could not have been allowed to survive, for his linguistic abilities would endanger the tale of what Philip and his (somewhat incompetent) men had done; it would have easily spread before Philip could have got two miles._

_“You! Lie!” He had kept shouting, so Philip had kept kicking, noting in that moment that he would need new boots after such a beating. The man had kept crying; sobs and howls for mercy spewing from him faster than his own blood could. “God will hold y-you in eternal damnation for what you done! Killing innocent women, children! – ”_

_The nigger had had brass, Philip would give him that; speaking out like that to a man that had just killed his entire tribe and could so easily kill him, too. The poor sod had no idea that Philip had never once possessed fear of God; no idea that his Catholicism had never stretched further than touching Mary-Alice behind the cloisters at fifteen years old after church on a Sunday._

_He had laughed, enjoying the dismay and sorrow in the black man’s eyes._

_“God? What God?” He had pressed his toe hard into the man’s shoulder and felt it crack. As the dirty nigger had howled, Philip lowered had himself into a squat. “Don’ya get it by now?” Philip remembered how he had wiped his bloodstained hands across his own face, the blood of his enemies imitating the tribal paint that they wore in the name of their God. The streaks of red across his cheeks and down his nose had felt almost like armour, as though – with the blood of his enemies for all to see – no one could ever touch him. “In this world, I_ am _God.”_

 _Withdrawing his Machete from his belt, Philip had ignored the man’s shrieks for mercy, as he had done with his entire village before him. “No matter…” As he went to finish him off, he paused, holding the blade to his throat with a dancing smile. “You tell your God…” he said with a bloody index finger to his lips. “No diamonds?_ No deal.”

 

 

Sipping his whiskey, he welcomed its familiar burn in his throat as it awoke him from his reverie. _Get a hold of yourself, Lombard._

“It was pinpoint accurate about me,” he challenged, interrupting the sea of denial that spewed from the mouths of those around him. He considered that one last tribesman as he puffed out his chest with self-congratulatory pride, throughly enjoying the way Vera near-choked on her brandy as her gaze span round to meet him. That’s right, darlin’, he wanted to say. I am just as awful as you think I am. You should see me with a Machete.

Everyone around him spluttered their false surprise, despite all knowing that if anyonewas a criminal in that room, it was surely him. 

Marston told his revelation of killing two children with the typical defensiveness of a coward, ironically not long before his life was snatched from him, officially making him the first to lose his life to Soldier Island. As Marston spluttered and choked after one too many sips of his drink, Philip felt the adrenaline sprint through his blood as he coasted the usual incredible high that accompanied danger…for those who were not swallowed by fear. (He felt naught but satisfaction at the sight of the smug, English bastard hanging over the abyss of death, though he found himself wondering who put the man there and wishing he had gotten there first). 

He watched passively as Marston’s body rigidly floundered in an attempt to cling to life; the room filled with sounds of pandemonium and panic, which set Philip alight with aggressive eagerness and energy rather than fear. 

“He’s – he’s bleeding!” Vera shrieked, and suddenly Marston’s death was a mere certainty as he began choking on his own blood, frothing crimson streaming from his rigid jaw. Philip remained where he had been stood throughout, poised by the fire – that is until Marston’s deadweight form, splurging blood, toppled onto Miss Claythorne, almost crushing her into the settee. “Get him off! Get him off of me!” she screeched. Less than a second later, as though of its own accord, Philip felt his body surge forward and lift the Englishman off her, while the others seemed too incapacitated by panic to be any use to anyone.

He watched her for a moment after that, as she lay shaking and frightened on the settee, Marston’s blood on her cheek with her lovely blue dress having ridden up to her knees. He gave over her and decided he very much liked to see her in such disarray; he very much liked to see her out of control. He cleared his throat and busied himself helping to carry Marston’s body back to his room. 

Yes…he liked that a lot. 

* * *

**_V. E. Claythorne_ **

 

_“It was pinpoint accurate about me.”_

She had tried to deny the arousal she had felt course through her at Mr. Lombard’s murderous confession, mostly because she was so entirely astounded by it. But it was practically impossible to do so, because it left tremors running through her, deep in her stomach; her eyes were suddenly unable to stray from his face, fascinated by his truths. He admitted to such _abhorrent_ acts so _easily,_ so _earnestly,_ as though admitting one’s sins was the _easiest_ thing in the world. She almost _envied_ him for it – especially since her own sins seemed to plague her more and more since she lost Hugo… 

“I always knew someone would _blab._ ” 

He went on to describe the ‘moron’ men who had accompanied him to the African continent and helped him to kill negro tribesman after tribesman until the death count totalled twenty-one, when their tribe had not fulfilled their side of the bargain during a trade-off for diamonds. 

“It’s amazing how men can have an attack of conscience when they are safely tucked away in their beds.” The threat in his voice sent an involuntary shiver up her spine that raised the hair on her arms. It was like a tiny, white-hot pinprick on her skin, triggering a jittering ball of energy in her gut that was barely contained by the deep breath she dragged into her lungs.

Most tantalising about the way he spoke though was the way he sounded _proud_ of it all. He was not _ashamed_ of the monster he was. _No_ – Philip Lombard _thrived_ on it. 

She then watched in horror as Marston began choking, his body falling atop her. She dropped her brandy instantly and cowered under the deadweight of his convulsing body, feeling his blood spurt onto her face. Panicked screeches and cries for help escaped her without thought, which a small part of her found frustrating, because it made her seem _weak._ What she did _not_ expect was for Mr. Lombard to help her as instantaneously as he did, as he had seemed to look almost _bored_ just a second before. He pulled Marston from her, his chest heaving as though he had been running for miles. As she curled into the fabric of the settee in shock, she felt her own body reacting the same, heaving for breath and shaking with adrenaline. 

She watched him lug Marston’s body, now confirmed dead, up over one shoulder (with the assistance of the other able-bodied men in the room) and toward his bedroom. Vera was left reeling, not with fear as she expected, but with the desire to chase after him.

* * *

 

 **A. R. Marston [Anthony, Reginald]**  
_DOB:  June 12th, 1915_  
  
_Place of Birth: The Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, London, England  
_ _Status: Marked_

_– Deceased –  
August 9th, 1939_

* * *

**** **_P. Lombard_ **

  
****

_“I was never a man for calm,”_ he’d said to the General the next morning, teetering on the bottom step of the staircase. He could feel it coming, ‘the storm’, as he had put it. He could feel the itch it sent over his skin, the impatience to strike first almost overwhelming. 

He’d meant it, too – he wasn’t. He simply could _not_ handle quiet. He’d fidget at silent dinner tables, drinking more wine than he should, simply to keep his hands busy. He had always thought that when he finally fled Dublin and its chaos, he’d be _grateful_ for the lack of suffocation, but instead found that his first flat in London’s outskirts was _so_ quiet it almost drove him _mad._ He needed stimuli, distractions, _entertainment…_ Suffice to say, he had ended up bringing multiple women back to that flat at night – at _once_.

He had not slept the night after Marston’s murder, opting instead to remain poised in the armchair in his room in case whoever it was that killed him made an appearance. Philip even contemplated snorting a gram or two of the dead bastard’s coke to help him stay alert. However, in the next moment, he had decided against it, realising that while it _may_ prevent sleep, it would also leave him _wired… Not wise_ when he was just a stone’s throw away from the likes of Miss Claythrone. 

_Vera…_

She came down for breakfast looking recognisably shaken by the events that had taken place the night before and the announcement of Mrs. Rogers’ death that morning. Her hair, perfectly curled upon their first meeting, was straight and natural, falling slightly from the pins she haphazardly put in place. The dark circles under her eyes told him she did not sleep either, though it was clear this was due to worry and guilt – the latter of which being a disposition Philip Lombard was fortunate enough not to suffer with. 

It was at breakfast that morning that he witnessed Vera’s sharp mind in action for the first time. She became fixated on the fact that two solider figures had disappeared from the table, insistent that the killer took them as they represented the two lives he had taken. First Marston, now Mrs. Rogers, the strange, ghostly maid.

“None of you moved them…?” she questioned with a hint of doubt as they all attempted to be interested in the boiled eggs Rogers had placed in front of them. “Was it _you,_ Doctor?” 

Busy wolfing down his breakfast, Philip flicked his eyes to her momentarily, watching as the man turned slowly on his heel, clearly holding in an exclamation. _Not wise to throw accusations out loud, Little Liar._

 _“No,”_ denied Doctor Armstrong, predictably in a patronising tone. It was clear that the medical man did not think much of women. 

“How did Mrs. Rogers _die?”_ Vera challenged, ignoring the food in front of her as she went on the offensive. 

“I have no idea,” the Doctor breathed, evidently close to the end of his tether. 

“Did you give her _something?”_ Her words came much faster than they had in any conversation the day before.

“ _Yes –_ a mild sedative.”

Philip could not help but watch her during this exchange and note she was fraying a little. His face remained nonchalant as he rolled his tongue over his teeth and swallowed the remainder of his food.

“Did you give her _too much?”_

Philipresisted the urge to roll his eyes at her careless, panicked reaction. _Careful, Sweetheart_ … _Never show them your hand_. Sipping his tea, he inwardly shook his head.

“It’s the poem – it’s the _poem_ , don’t you _see? Ten Little Soldier Boys…”_ Her words came even faster. “There were ten of them and _ten of us_ and now there’s _eight – “_

Rogers moved like a shadow behind him, claiming to go about preparing for Narrocott’s arrival. Philip found his gaze following the man out the room. He did not trust him; he hadn’t since he claimed to have blindly followed orders with the record. It all seemed _far_ too convenient. 

“Tony Marston was _young_ and _strong._ He didn’t die from some _stimulant –_ “ She pulled up short and shifted in her seat. “Perhaps he was _poisoned_ – and – _and_ – Mrs. Rogers, perhaps she was given too much! What drugs _do_ you have in your medical bag, Doctor?” 

Just like that, Philip learnt that, though rash and overemotional, there was a particular logic and calculation to the mind of Miss Vera Claythorne. If it were up to the other minds in that room, Philip was sure it would have taken them _days_ longer to notice the figures were even missing. That… _and_ she had yet to say anything that was not rooted in sound reasoning.  

He took her in as she desperately grappled for control, all tense in that pretty, pleated cream blouse, and he almost felt _smug_ on her behalf. _What a clever little liar you are._

* * *

 

 ****__**E. A. Rogers [Ethel, Alice]**  
_DOB: November 20th, 1911_ **  
**  
_Place of Birth: Southend, London, England_  
Status: Marked

_– Deceased –  
August 10th, 1939_

 

* * *

 

**_V. E. Claythorne_ **

 

She stalked into the library seeking seclusion, feeling the rouge of embarrassment heating her cheeks. That _ridiculous, spineless_ fool of a Doctor, having thrown the contents of her suitcase, stockings and all, _all over_ the floor like some ten year old boy, had indeed proved her wrong in her accusations. He did _not_ have anything other than mild sedatives…but she _knew_ she was onto something. The figures had been _moved._ They were symbolic – she just _knew it._

Her body seemed to be wracked with a tiny, intermittent tremor that meant sitting still was difficult. It had become very grey outside and she sighed at the sight of it. Such overcast always made her feel boxed in, even when she was out in the open air. 

She tried to calm herself by periodically folding her possessions and placing them, one by one, back into her suitcase. As she ran her fingers over her stockings, she prayed that Armstrong’s boisterous behaviour had not rendered them ruined. She could scarcely afford another decent pair after her stagnant employment status of late. 

It was, of _course_ , just as she handled such delicates that Philip walked in. She raised her head to the sound of his steps, watching as he walked past her without acknowledgement and retrieved a cigarette from the box on the table. He lit it before turning back toward the door. She watched his movements and noted he seemed too _at ease._ It irked her that he could be so calm. Why couldn’t she?

 _Perhaps because you are not a cold-blooded killer,_ she told herself.  

Then – “Did you _really_ kill all those men?”

She has no idea why she said it, for she already knew what his reply would be. Perhaps a part of her was hoping that it was not true…though she suspected that it was because a _greater_ part of her hoped it _was._

The look he gave her was impassive, unimpressed – as though he had expected more from her. “ _Yes, Miss Claythorne,”_ he drawled in a deadpan voice that rang with boredom. “I _did_ kill _‘all those men’_.” His tone was almost mocking, as though he was judging her for wanting to believe he was anything other than a murderer. Perhaps he _was_. “And more,” he continued, and she shifted her gaze from the floor to his impassive, handsome face, to the smoke that billowed from his lips and back again.

“Why?” she asked. There was something rather fascinating about hearing him _say it._ Such truths Mr. Lombard told…

Stepping further back into the room toward her, his expression with grave with the weight of truth, as though he was a parental figure telling a child the grim realities of life. “It seemed like a good idea, at the time.”

 _At the time?_ She hadn’t expected him to say that. So perhaps he _did_ regret? Somehow, she doubted it. Perhaps he had nightmares, too?

“They had something I wanted,” he explained plainly. “In _this_ case it was diamonds…worth more than a few lives.”

No, in that moment, regret and remorse were emotions that Vera was certain Philip Lombard was incapable of. She almost envied him… but the bleak picture he painted frightened her too much. Such men were terrifying in their ability to take whatever they wanted from whomever happened to get in their way…even if those people were complete innocents. _That,_ no matter _how_ handsome the man, Vera would _never_ be able to swallow. 

She busied herself with folding the rest of her clothing into her case, attempting to distract her thoughts from Philip at the centre of a merciless, bloody massacre. 

“What about _you?”_ he asked then and she looked up, confused. He neared her again, seemingly unhappy with the disapproving look on her face. “What did _you_ want?”

She felt her eye twitch as she squinted at him in confusion. Her expression hardened as she realised what he was implying: that _she_ was as bad. The realisation resembled icy water down her back. He _knew._ He _knew_ she was lying about Cyril… What’s more – he was implying that made _her_ like _him!_  

“I nearly _drowned!”_ she asserted in a solid voice, not bothering to hide her offence. “I _failed_ to save a little boy in my care.” It wasn't as though _that_ was a lie. She _had._ “And there is not one moment of _every day_ that I am not sorry for that! Why aren’t _you?”_  

It wasn’t as though _that_ was a lie, either. Cyril haunted her more and more with each day that passed. Without Hugo, it was becoming hard to see why she had done what she had, just _why_ she had let little Cyril drown. It seemed like a whole other world from her life now, as though she had been an entirely separate person then. That being said, if it meant Hugo would come back to her, she would do it all again. 

So, out of habit more than anything, she let the lie slip from her lips, despite the fact that Philip Lombard appeared to be nothing but honest with her about _his_ sins. 

Perhaps _that_ was his weakness. One day, confidence might just surround him in such a heavy cloud that it could leave him blind…and what was a cold-blooded killer without his sight?

“I _know_ what I am.” His tone had turned deep with an edge she did not like. “I always knew it would catch up with me.” She swallowed, once again envious of his ability to accept the hand of God without repentance and without _fear_. Almost wistfully, his gaze left her as he turned on his heel, his voice becoming soft, as though reaching a spiritual realisation as he took a long pull of smoke into his lungs. “And here it is…”

If Vera had been shaken prior to their conversation, Philip left her in a state of restlessness. He _knew –_ quite clearly he knew – that she had let little Cyril die. _No one else_ she had ever told that lie to had seen through it, besides Hugo…and _he_ hadn’t seen through it because of some uncanny ability of massive intellect. _No –_ Hugo had simply doubted her word because she forgot that he knew how fast she could run. 

Philip Lombard, somehow – God only _knew_ how – saw through her most well crafted, most _expertly tested_ lie…and it left her feeling naked and bare. For if she did not have lies, then she had no defence against him – a cold-blooded _killer_ … None at all.

She had made her way outside after that, finding herself stuck in the company of Ms. Brent, who began dishing out yet more stinging and judgemental comments about Vera and everyone else on the island, aside from the Judge. She rose her eyes to Ms. Brent in shock as she began explaining who it was she had killed, how the girl she took in and raised fell pregnant and so she threw her, quite literally, out of the house. The girl then went and jumped in front of a train – an outcome that seemed to affect the older woman very little. Vera was staggered by the woman’s ability to place all blame outside herself, as she curtly claimed that the young girl’s immoral tendencies and inability to do anything other than give in to the ‘melodrama’ within her own mind meant her death was both unsurprising and deserved. Vera felt ill at the thought of the poor young girl, barely out of childhood, without any hope left, considering how close she  _herself_ had come to unwanted pregnancy out of wedlock. Her own mother, sadly, would probably have reacted much the same. 

“Your Mark…” Vera suddenly questioned, wanting to put Ms. Brent under scrutiny for a change. “If you don’t mind my asking, what kind is it again? I know you said, at dinner, but I have a terrible memory. Initials, was it?” She kept her tone light and friendly as she continued to allow Ms. Brent to wrap her knitting wool around her hands. 

Ms Brent considered her for a beat or two, but smiled. “Yes. Of my late husband.”

“I have always thought that those without Marks are so unfortunate.” She held eye contact in an attempt to remain nonchalant. “It’s such a wonderfully poetic concept, is it not? To know the initials of the soul meant for you, or to know what your parting words from this world will be…” 

As the lie slipped from her mouth with ease and grace, Ms. Brent regarded her wistfully. 

“Yes, I do agree.” She then halted her movements to sip her tea. “I’ve often thought that they do add something to a woman’s beauty, having such an intimate detail hidden beneath layers of clothes for only one’s most intimate life partners to find.”  _So, your Mark is_ hidden _then,_ Vera thought smugly as she took in the older woman’s high-necked blouse, cardigan, long skirt and stockings. Well, that is if she in fact had one _at all._

* * *

  
_**General J. W. MacArthur [John, William]**_  
_DOB: February 7th, 1881_  
  
_Place of Birth: Tunbridge Wells, Kent, England_  
_Status: Marked_  
  
_– Deceased –  
August 10th, 1939_

 

* * *

 

By the end of that same day, Vera’s suspicions of lies about Markings were forgotten, as whoever killed Mrs. Rogers and Anthony Marston had beaten General MacArthur to death over the back of the head. She tried not to think too much about what he had said to her that morning, not an hour before it happened: that the end was coming for all of them and she would understand someday the relief the thought of death brought him. Despite the fact she had predicted it over breakfast, the weight of the fact she had been right about a cunning killer being amongst them sent her into a panic. 

She did not want to die.

She found herself stood at the break of the surf; wet, cold sand squelching between her toes as the dusk sky was blanketed with heavy, black clouds and winds that whipped at her hair, leaving her face numb. A hand bracing her chest, she felt her breathing pattern and heartbeat continue to race. She _needed_ to get out. She _had_ to get out of here. 

The sea perpetually reminded her of what she had done… The shore reminded her of her hesitation, her callous decision that day…to let a little boy run down to the water to swim tothe rocks, to _encourage_ him to do so, _knowing_ he would never make it. 

Water was always a reminder… If anything, she was _terrified_ of water these days. It brought such guilt and anxiety over her…but, as strong as her fear she may be, her desire to live was stronger. 

Just like that, she ran for it, wading into the icy, murky waters with a sudden fiery determination. She had not been near the sea since… _that day…_ but now her body’s new fear of the water took a back seat. She could not stay here; she would _die_ here. The killer, most likely that _awful, sinful_ Philip Lombard, would butcher them all. She would not be one of them.

Salt water collided with her front and into her mouth. The impending thunderstorm had almost arrived and the force of the waves were violent and brutal. She could swim – _really_ swim. She _knew_ that. After all, she’d been able to stay afloat for a good long while waiting for someone to discover Cyril and herself… She _could_ swim. She could make it to the mainland. She _could_ get out of here. 

As the water soaked her skirt and nearly lapped at her hips, she heard the Judge, shouting for her from the shore. “I have to go!” she exclaimed simply, because she had no other words for the urgency she felt through her veins. 

The Judge, seemingly fragile and unsteady on his feet though he was, managed to take her arm and waist and walk her back to the shore. She remembered thinking, what a _nice_ man, as he offered her his coat and walked her all the way back to the house, his own trousers now sopping, leaving her first manic episode while on Soldier Island to be washed away with the tide.

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU FOR READING. 
> 
> Please do Kudos but most importantly, be sure to comment your views so I can see why you think.  
> Third chapter is being beta-ed now so the nicer you are, the quicker you will get it..... 
> 
> LOVE xxxx


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